Page 55 of Veil

I follow Parker on social media, but she hasn’t posted anything since the fallout with her ex.

When the server arrives with a fresh round of drinks, Cannon asks for the check, and once he’s out of earshot, I ask, “Have you always been attracted to younger women?”

He arches a neatly trimmed brow. “Are you asking if I prefer younger women?”

I respond with a shrug.

“I’ve dated younger and older women. I don’t have a preference. It’s about the woman herself. Does our age difference bother you?”

“It doesn’t really feel like there’s a difference.” I lean toward him and push out my lips for a kiss. “I’m aware I’m a little on the immature side, but being with you feels… comfortable. Like we fit. You know?”

He leans into my ear. “Oh, I know.”

The waiter returns with our check, and after Cannon pays the bill, we head to his place.

For some reason, I pictured Cannon living in a high-rise somewhere downtown near the office. I’m surprised when he turns down a side street just a few blocks from The Village. As he navigates through the quiet neighborhood, I stare out the window taking in the big, beautiful homes with perfectly manicured lawns. The car slows before turning into a driveway belonging to a white, two-story, plantation home. The multi-paned windows are trimmed by black shutters, and of course, the front door is red.

“This is your house?” I ask.

He shuts off the engine and looks over at me with raised brows. “Were you expecting something else?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I figured you lived in a bachelor pad or something a bit more ostentatious. This is a family home.”

“This is where I grew up.” He pushes the driver door open and climbs out. “Wait there.”

Closing the door, he rounds the front of his car to my side, taking my hand as I step out.

“My parents were high school sweethearts, married right out of high school,” he says. “Four and a half years later, they bought this house. Six months later, I was born.” He slides a key into the deadbolt, unlocking the side door, and I follow him inside.

Cannon closes and locks the door and while he disengages the alarm, I move around the small sitting room. A modern-style leather armchair is tucked into the corner. Beside it, a console table

topped with a few picture frames and a silver bowl shaped like a clam shell.

I pick up one of the framed photos. It’s dated and I assume the young couple are his parents and the little boy on the woman’s hip is Cannon.

Cannon tosses his keys into a decorative bowl then studies the image over my shoulder. His eyes soften and he smiles.

“I wondered about your mother, but I didn’t want to pry,” I admit.

“My mother lives in Boca,” he tells me. “My parents divorced right after I graduated college. They’d grown apart, so the divorce was amicable. Two years later, my father married Heather’s mother, Julie.”

“Did you get along with her?”

“I loved Julie. She made my father happy, and she was a good mother not only to Heather, but to me as well. Heather was only nine when they married and I was twenty-four, so we didn’t have a lot in common. It took a couple years for us to warm up to each other. When they died, she clung to me like her only lifeline.

I set the frame down on the table then turn to face him. “Heather doesn’t really talk about her family.”

“Because she doesn’t have much family. Her father died when she was a baby. Her grandparents don’t really make any effort to see her.” He shrugs. “I’m pretty much all she has. She gets along pretty well with my mom and there’s my cousin, Ryan, and his daughter.”

I curl my arms around his neck, and he jerks his head to the side when my wristlet nearly smacks him in the face. “Sorry.” I laugh, before placing a chaste kiss to his lips.

He gives me a light tap on the butt. “Let me show you around.”

The house has been completely remodeled. We pass through a modern kitchen with dark blue cabinets, white marble countertops, and stainless-steel appliances that doesn’t look like he’s ever used it. The living room is cozy with a slate-blue sofa and cream-colored accent chair. A flat screen hangs over the fireplace centered in the middle of the wall and it’s flanked by bookshelves lined with more frames.

“I love that you have pictures of your family everywhere,” I say, taking a few moments to look at the framed photos.

“I have a lot of good memories.”

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